El Canibal
by VaterUnser
Summary: Gore- Antonio is stricken with insanity, though Lovino thinks he has succumbed to Satan. Will the Spaniard turn on his lover, or be cured from his blood and flesh lust?
1. Sed de sangre

CAPTER I.

(( Author Note: This is an AU fic about Antoino (Spain), and Lovino (S. Italy). It takes place in the early 1700's. Spain is stricken with insanity, though because of the time period, Lovino is convinced he has succumbed to the devil. Human names and Country titles are used. This is my first actual fic, so please cut me some slack. ;3; 3 ))

The dreamy Tuscan-esque villa sat in complete silence, on that faithful night. Nothing but the occasional cricket chirp stirred the warm evening air. As lovely as the terra-cotta coloured home was, many souls swore never to encroach on its grounds, for they knew of the impending doom should they cross over. The man of the dreadful reputation was a Spaniard, twenty-three years of age, or so he appeared. Some say he had been around since the dawn of Europe, others say he was just simply heir to the throne. Really, no one knew. The sun had settled comfortably behind the west, and the dashing Spaniard retreated to his cellar, like a spider to darkness.

A crooked smile teased at his lips, exhibiting small pieces of still bloody flesh caught between perfectly pearly white incisors. There, he opened a heavy metal door, riveted with massive iron bolts and a giant lock with a key hole. Antonio, so he was called, carefully fingered through a large ring of keys, hanging from his leather belt, and found the correct one to open the large door before him. The door opened with a creak, and he stepped in with boisterous confidence. The dungeon cell was damp and dank. It reeked of the previous corpses that had been unfortunate enough to stay out the rest of their lives there. On the wall, hung a man. He was slender and starved, and his belly was bloating from gout. He was weak and frail, but managed to lift his heavy head and stare at the healthy brunette before him.

He gave Antonio a long, hard state. The Spaniard was dressed in elegant silks and lace, velveteen and fur. The gold accents, buttons and ribbon on his intricate uniform glistened in what little light there was to offer. Antonio shifted his weight to one hip, and admired his own gloved hand. "Usted pobre alma." he scoffed, raising a brow at a frayed thread. A quick, subtle movement was all it took for Antonio to appear at the hanging man's side. A blade was stuck to his arm, up by the shoulder socket. Warm trickles of blood splashed against the cobble stone by Antonio's feet. The smell of iron wafted into his nose, and he begrudgingly breathed it in. Something within toiled relentlessly, and those emerald green eyes grew wide, and dark pupils shrunk, despite the darkness. Antonio shoved the dull blade perfectly between the socket and humerus, and he forcefully whittled the blade through tough tissue. The man screamed and cried in pain and horror, and he knew his end was soon, just like the other corpses that lie rotting on the floor.

He saw it happen to the others. He had been in that cellar for weeks, and once, he say Antonio shred through a mother and her unborn child, that grin plastered upon his sun-kissed face. Pain shot through the man's entire body, and he did all he could to try and writhe free, but that only instigated the primal instinct within the Spaniard. Hastily, Antonio pulled away from the writhing man, and tore off his gloves. Under his nails were crusted with dried blood and skin. Long minutes past, and Antonio fought to remove the victim's frail arm, and with success, a terrible cackle rose from his throat. It echoed through the cell, and up the winding stairwell, though the door Antonio neglected to shut behind him.

He took a few steps back to admire what he had done, the bloody arm gripped firmly in his right hand. The victim hung there by his remaining arm, bleeding out, panting and whining to Antonio to spare his life. Though, his pleas never got through to the brunette. He turned his heel, showing his back to the man. It was as equally as decorated as the front of him. He turned, as if to shield himself from letting the man see what he was going to do with the severed arm. Antonio lifted the arm closer to his face to examine it in the dim light. The blood trailed down the man's arm, delicately weaving up and over Antonio's bruised fingers. He smiled, eyes lighting up with pure joy and delight.

His stomach ached for a taste of that fresh spilled blood, that red flesh and chewy skin. His own blood pounded in his ears during a brief moment of contemplation as to where to begin consuming the appendage. A primitive grunt echoed against the brick walls as Antonio's sharp teeth buried themselves into the grey-pink dermis. He whined with delight and closed his eyes, savouring the raw taste of his delicacy


	2. Temor y Odio

(( Holy moly, you guys! So many people have already read over this and it's only been up for about 2 days. THANK YOU SO MUCH. 3

Well, this chapter isn't nearly as good as the first one, but I do what I can. I typed this up during class today, so, I'm just a little frazzled, but I needed to get something out, Y'know? Anyway, I hope you like it. It's more of a filler than anything, because it's short. By the way, my chapter titles are in Spanish. You can translate them if you like. Hee hee. 3 ANYWAY. Enjoy. ))

Fog blanketed the royal estate the next morning. October had settled comfortably into the year, and its dreary undertone obediently followed. Light pierced Antonio's open bedroom. He stirred with a groan of dull pain. "Me duele la cabeza," he mumbled, as he sat up, running thin fingers through those thick brown locks. Beside him slept his faithful companion of many years. The sweet Italian, so perfectly tanned and perfectly sculpted, almost beautiful enough to eat. The Spaniard smiled at his sleeping partner, and gently brushed the auburn hair from his loosely closed eyes. "Oh, Lovi," he would coo, as if clockwork, to the child every morning.

The Italian was notorious for his sour outlook on life, and grudgingly, he would stir for Antonio. "Che cosa è, bastardo?" the small child would say, rubbing the sleep from his hazel eyes. Antonio took the supple body in his arms, and with the utmost care, cradled him gently; he would then return Lovino to his spot and get out of bed. Antonio stood by the side of the bed, his arms stretched above his head in attempt to wake his muscles from their own slumber.

He could almost feel those hazel eyes admiring his muscular back. The carpet beneath his toes was plush and delicate, though it had grown worn through out the years. "You bastard!" Lovino shrieked when Antonio turned around. His shock left the boy half petrified, "What have you done?" Evidence of the night before had lingered on Antonio's chest, neck, arms and hands. He had neglected to wash before climbing into bed with his Italian. Tears welled in those beautiful hazel eyes, stricken with disbelief and fear of what had happened. "Antonio..." he whispered, scooting back as far as possible, covering his nether regions with soft sheets.

All the Spaniard could do was gaze down at his bloodied palms and arms, wide-eyed. "Lovino, I..." he started, giving the other a concerned look, "No se`." Tears built up further, and finally trailed down the Italian's soft tanned cheeks, leaving thin warm trails. He damned Antonio out of the room until he washed. Whatever it was that he had done, the dejected Spaniard resented himself for it.

Nothing made him more upset and full of self-loathe than making his beloved cry. It was unfathomable what he did, as much as he racked his brain for memories or evidence; it was all gone. "What have I done?" he said to himself, slipping into a tub of hot water. The steaming water had turned a dull red-brown colour. The blood seemed to melt off Antonio's body. It swirled about his ankles and legs, taunting him.

The Spaniard could not help himself. His own eyes wept. He wept for Lovino. He wept for himself. He wept because he did not know how to feel.


	3. Falta de gusto

(( Hey guys. Thanks so much for the favourites! It's really awesome and means a lot. I'm glad you like the story so far. I know it's moving slow, but I plan to make this really long, so. This chapter should leave you guys wanting more. Ooooh~ What did Antonio do to Lovino? You'll find out in the next chapter. 3 I promise.

Also, I'm sorry for the slow updates. School has been wicked insane, and I rarely find the time (or the muse) to write much anymore. Please tell me what you guys think~ 3 ))

The sun glared upon the ghastly estate. The middle of summer was an impending doom, preparing to blast all of its unforgiving heat on the land and its people. Antonio was dozing in the comforting shade of his garden gazebo, a pitcher of sweet nectar beside him. The ice in his glass was quickly melting, leaving a little disk of clear water on top of the juice. Heat levitated from the ground in blistering waves.

Lovino stood back by the house at the edge of the garden, daring not walk into the sun. He wore a broad-rimmed straw sunhat on his head, flip-flops on his feet and shorts. It was far too hot to wear a shirt. Behind the waving curtain of heat, he could see the Spaniard, sleeping in the shade. 'Lazy bastard,' he thought to himself, crouching down. The concrete in the shadow was much cooler than the sun, and just like a child would, Lovino avoided the sun-kissed areas to save his toes.

Though Antonio looked rather happy and at ease, there was a beast in his belly. The feast from the night before did not settle too kindly on his system, and his fever spiked. Hopefully the heat and sun would help him sweat out the fever and infection, but to his discomfort, made nausea and light headed-ness his prime ailments. Sweat beaded upon his tan skin, some rolling off onto the soft pillows the Spaniard nested on. "Lovi," he called to his partner, rolling over to his belly and glancing back towards the house over his shoulder. "¿Me ayudarás a?" Antonio's tone was nearly that of a beg, and assistance was greatly needed to sit up. The pillows seemed to have an iron grip on the man, pulling his flesh straight off the muscle beneath, grabbing his hair and limbs and legs and neck. The Spaniard began to panic, his chest rising and falling with angst and anxiety, simply from not being able to sit up on his own. From the distance, Lovino watched the Spaniard struggle.

He rolled those hazel eyes, and with a groan, stood up. "What do you want?" He called to the other. A pause; no reply. "Toni?" He shouted again, taking a step onto the cool grass. It wiggled beneath his feet, and he gripped the little blades with his toes. Antonio was silent, and this raised some concern in the Italian. It was blistering hot out, perhaps the idiot had passed out and needed to be dragged inside. The little Italian squinted his pretty eyes and quickly sprinted across the lawn to Antonio's shaded area. There, he found Spain, distressed and panicking. "What the hell's the matter?" he said, looking down at the man, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. "Lovi.. I feel unwell, please, help me up. I can walk to the house, I just…." he paused to take a heavy, yet shallow breath. Those lungs and that heart was working overtime, it was obvious. The Italian half admired the veins pounding in the dreamy Spaniard's neck, hands and feet. They were the most pronounced blood routes on his perfect sculpture. Antonio had grown horribly thin the past few months.

There he lay, shirtless and distraught. "Yeah, yeah. Hold on," Lovi said, holding out his little hand to lift the much larger man up. Antonio did the best he could to give the Italian's hand a good squeeze, but despite his efforts, he was weak and weary. Regardless, Lovino lifted him to his feet and sent him straight to bed. Lovino found himself in the kitchen, thinking about dinner, while Antonio did his best to climb those horrid stairs.

They seemed endless, those stairs. With each step, they seemed the distance themselves from each other more and more, mocking the Spaniard. He couldn't make it up the entire flight by himself. Step after step, he grew weaker and weaker. A simply task became a struggle of willpower. Dry lips parted to gasp for air, though despite his best efforts, Antonio simply could not win against the demon that pushed him down. His blood was weak.

On the tile counter sat a ceramic bowl, gently painted with bright colours. In the bowl sat equally bright tomatoes, clinging to a severed vine. Lovino pondered the tomatoes for a while, giving them a good, hard glare. He tore a heft fruit off the vine and admired it. Both Lovino and Antonio raised their own tomato plants and harvested the fruits. These had been harvested the day before from one of Lovino's most prized plants. He sank his teeth into the smooth flesh, the juices flowing into his mouth and leaking out of the corner of his lips and down his chin. The Italian hastily bit off a chunk, and in the same instant, wiped the juice off on the shoulder of his shirt.

The fruit was sweet with a slight savoury tang. The smell was mouth-watering. The juice was thin and reeked of the fresh outdoors from which it came. Without a second though, Lovino decided to climb those stairs. Tomato in his hand. "Antonio!" he shrieked, discovering the Spanish man looking horribly disheveled and suffering pain. Antonio struck out a quivering arm to the Italian, in hopes he would assist him up. "I..I can't…." his breath was shallow and panicked, heavy and desperate. Blood seemed to pound in his ears, vignette his vision.

It took what seemed like forever for Lovino to hoist Antonio up and to his bed. The room was completely black, and all that was heard was Lovino's cracking voice blaring as loud as it could manage.


End file.
